


In the End (Goodbye Sherlock)

by Inactive Account (sassybleu)



Series: An Ugly Welcome Home [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Addiction, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 14:18:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1691327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassybleu/pseuds/Inactive%20Account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John, it baffles me, really, your name. Four letters, and it is most common, but it’s you isn't it? Such a simple accumulation of sounds can entirely make a person. A doctor, a soldier, a friend, all encompassed in four letters. </p><p>Sitting in front of the sofa, he sits still, and stares. Just simply stares at the object in front of him. He knows what’ll happen. Craves it. But he's got something to do.</p><p>*Can be read as a standalone</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the End (Goodbye Sherlock)

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to learninghowtobreathe because that's who encouraged me to write something like this. 
> 
> Prequel and Sequel on the way!

          In the end, none of it really mattered did it? He left; he gave up everything for them. They thought he was dead, with the thoughts that at least he wasn’t suffering anymore. At least he wouldn’t be a problem either. But to him, it was worse wasn’t it? He had to live knowing they’d be moving on with their lives. Knowing the pain he caused them. They got some closure, while he had the rug ripped from the soles of his shoes.

          He fell back to old ways, not surprising in the least bit. No food, no sleep, and the rush kept going by the liquid in his veins. Torture surely would’ve been better, death would have been better. But while the blows landed invisibly, leaving no trail in their wake, all he could do was wonder, “What if they knew? Would they believe him this time? Or would all they could think be, ‘How long until he comes back this time?’”

          Coming home had been hard, his feet like lead in his shoes, weighing him down with an unearthly amount of force. John left, and he took Sherlock’s heart with him, as clichéd that might be. Mrs. Hudson refused him, his flat being the only thing she shared with him. Mycroft broke off help as the addiction took over, and Lestrade refused contact after finally relearning himself. So that brings back the question; in the end, did any of it matter? Sitting in front of the sofa, he sits still, and stares. Just simply stares at the object in front of him. He knows what’ll happen. Craves it. But he has something to do, and so he starts to write:

                             Lestrade, I apologize for my actions, I understand that you’ve put up with me for quite some time with                                  little more than aggravated patience, though as annoying and as much of an idiot you may be, you are a fine detective.

Onto the next page,

Mycroft, you’re an idiot. The world would have spun without me, regardless of whether it goes around the sun as they insist I should know. I would’ve avoided the pain that I caused. They would’ve only had to see it once. Why didn’t you let me see that? You pushed the choice from my brain, because the British Government needed to benefit one more time, didn’t it? In any case, you will take care of them, that is all I ask.

Next,

                             Mrs. Hudson, thank you for the tea. I understand you, an old maid, living alone. I might’ve given you hope and perhaps even joy on occasion. Carry on, and for god’s sake get a cat already. Felines are common pets for women of your age, and you might find joy in the constant company of an orange tabby, or something along the lines.

Finally,

                             John, it baffles me, really, your name. Four letters, and it is most common, but it’s _you_ isn’t it? Such a simple accumulation of sounds can entirely make a person. A doctor, a soldier, a friend, all encompassed in four letters. The English language, as with all languages are of beauty. Such simple minds created something brilliant. In our case, 26 letters, and the infinite number of words they make, into the infinite number of combinations they can be strung together in. It’s music, it’s art, it’s beauty. Your silly little blog brought people to your mercy. Your emotions latched behind the words moved their emotions. And while it takes all that for them to sway, I’ve been deduced down to one word. _John_.

I hoped you’ve found closure, though I cannot be certain since you’ve been so intent on forgetting me. I don’t blame you, John. If anything, I am completely at fault. I should have died then. Then you could’ve truly healed. But being the idiot I am, I neglected the knowledge that things change, because for me they so rarely do. Alone, for so long; and then you came, and John, you made me new, then back to the dark world that is loneliness, the tendrils of pain clutching at my heart, squeezing tighter each day, until surely I thought I’d burst.

I came back, and was expecting the old familiarity of what had become my life. I expected your pain, I expected to work, and become friends once again.

Never did I think you’d water the tendrils that trapped me.

Never did I think you’d nourish their growth.

Never did I think you’d change your views so deeply.

Because while you may have believed in me, and thought you always would; I came home and change your mind.

You’ll see my pain, being the nurturer you are. But I don’t think you realize what you’ve done. I lost you. They got to you, and I simply became what they always saw.

Dangerous.

Psychopath.

 _Freak_.

And with each word, the letters wrapped, tightly, so tightly John. And something finally clicked. And my brain was quiet. You did it John; you finally did it. Of all the times I wanted the peace, of all the times I reached for a fix to stop it. It was you that were finally able to.

And it didn’t help. Because with all the silence, I couldn’t think, reduced to idiocy, below even Anderson. And my syringe, well, it made me work again. What, for so long, helped me slow down, began to help me speed up. And that is how I sit here now, giving my last words. My _note_ John, because isn’t that what people do?

For all the things in the world I expected, none of them had been you. With the tendrils tightening, as they grow stronger with each word. I finish my thoughts,

_I love you, John._

 

          He left the letters on the table, under his kit, an obvious place they’d be found. Instructions left for his body to be found the following day, he sat down and breathed a sigh of relief.

He could go; he could go into oblivion and only hope his mind would follow.

Hope his insatiable boredom would be cured wherever he was going.

Hope the pain he caused, would be forgotten quickly enough that he did not disrupt their lives anymore.

Hope that his pain, though he felt he deserved it, would go away, if only lessen a bit.

He could only hope that the tendrils finally freed him, and let him breathe.

 

And with that, he sunk the needle into his arm, with one word, four letters, a small mix of sounds, on his lips.

“ _John.”_

         Because In the end, none of it really mattered did it? He left; he gave up everything for them. He saved them, but in the end, no one was there to save him.

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd; I only own the words I write.  
> Comments are appreciated!
> 
>  
> 
> 4/13/15: Please do not duplicate or post this content elsewhere without consent.


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